


Stop him laughing

by flamboyantlycriminal (error221b)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bullying, Child Jim, implied Hannibal crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-07 19:45:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3180899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/error221b/pseuds/flamboyantlycriminal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Squirrels don't go to hell, do they?" Jim asked one time, curiously.<br/>"I can't say I know. What would it change if they did?"<br/>Jim shrugged, sitting back.<br/>"I killed squirrels. I want to know where they go."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stop him laughing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [duckhouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/duckhouse/gifts).



"You can't fight what you are, Jim. Not forever." He muttered, his voice slightly unclear but then that's what it's always been. The meaning was clear though and Jim knew what it would end like. It probably shouldn't even be called a fight, the winner was always known to him, even if not to his stupid parents and teachers and everyone. Everyone was so stupid. Jim was ten years old and above all else he wanted to kill all the stupid people, all of them.

 

He was alone. God, always so alone when he could actually use some help. He looked around, scared, searching for a place to hide but hearing the voices laughing at him, mocking him. He tried to speak a little softer so many times, trying out words like a baby learning them for the first time, he tried keeping silent, but they all knew already and they all laughed and it was so hard to catch a breath and when he touched a wall the wall was wet and and soft and leaking between his fingers and he could feel the paint dripping off his hands as they started melting and he still couldn't catch a breath and the dirty waves were stronger than him, carrying him through the corridors and into the principal's office and he was there with his light brown hair and his blueish eyes, pointing at Jim and laughing at him and the principal laughed with him, kicking Jim out of the school because he was ginger and he could see his own reflection, he was ginger, and he started crying so much harder because he tried so hard and he curled under a blanket, shaking as if from cold, his whole tiny body covered in sweat, his pillow soaked with tears. At least he didn't wet himself. Dad would kill him if he did.

 

"Can you tell me about these dreams, Jim?" He asked, of course knowing he had another nightmare. He could always tell somehow. Maybe it was the black circles under the boy's eyes, maybe it was the air of insecurity around him. 

"He was laughing at me. They all were and he pointed at me. He said I'm ginger."

"Do you think you're ginger, Jim..?"

Jim gave him a suspicious look, narrowing his eyes and shifting in a chair too big for him. He wasn't stupid, he knew his hair was pitch black.

"He said I'm ginger in my head. Inside." Jim paused, waiting for a reaction. "He says I'm different, that I shouldn't be allowed with normal boys."

"But you are different, Jim. Aren't you?"

 

Of course he was different. Normal boys don't cry at night, normal boys don't have nightmares, normal boys don't wet their beds, normal boys don't get sent to therapy, normal boys don't slice squirrels' bellies open, normal boys are normal, not ginger inside their heads.

He once saw a crushed skull but the man's brain wasn't ginger even though they lived by the same street all Jim's life. Maybe the man wasn't born there? And did it matter if he got killed anyway?

 

"I killed a squirrel yesterday." Jim started nonchalantly, making himself comfortable in the big armchair. "I just wanted to watch it on the inside but it reminded me of him."

"And what did you do?"

"I wanted to kick it, jump on it, I wanted to crush it to a pulp."

"What did you do, Jim?"

The boy stayed silent for a moment, slouching in his seat. "I cut it and watched it bleed out." He replied eventually, watching the doctor's faint smile with a small dose of surprise.

"Did you think of Carl when killing it?"

Biting his lip, Jim nodded.

"Why didn't you hurt it then?"

"I just want him to stop laughing. I want them all to stop."

 

Jim liked him, really. He was nice, smart, he was a foreigner as well... after a little sniffing around he knew why the doctor could understand him so well. He always looked good and smelled nice, he never laughed at him, he called him Jim, not Jimmy nor James like other adults usually did. He never judged him either, he just asked a lot of questions. That was getting annoying sometimes too, but it was nothing Jim couldn't take.

 

He watched Carl all break, hoping the boy won't talk to him or about him. He seemed to be in a good mood, which meant he didn't need him to take out his frustration on, but no day is too good to make it a bit better by 'showing that little Irish cunt where he belongs'. Jim must've been looking at him for a little too long. One of the boys by Carl's side grinned and pointed at him, getting all the group's attention. When Carl looked over and their eyes met, Jim wanted desperately to look away, shrink and disappear. But the doctor said he didn't have to. He said he could, and he should, stand up for himself. That Carl couldn't keep on laughing at him. That he had to make Carl stop. Jim held his gaze and smirked at the boy, hoping his fake confidence would spare him the trouble. He thought of the squirrel, how it fought and squealed and how it weakened and bled and was nothing. He imagined the same happening to Carl and his smile wasn't fake for a moment.

 

It was dark and hot, too hot to breathe, wet. It felt like the air surrounding him was a sponge, soaked with water the same temperature as his body, filling his  nose, his mouth, stinging his eyes. He couldn't scream for help, he couldn't even move, drowning in his bed and the only thing he could hear was a loud laughter, the voice multiplying quickly, becoming a choir, a cacophony distorted by the water in his ears. 

He spent the rest of the night washing the sheets as carefully as he could not to wake up his father.

 

"Squirrels don't go to hell, do they?" Jim asked one time, curiously.

"I can't say I know. What would it change if they did?"

Jim shrugged, sitting back.

"I killed squirrels. I want to know where they go."

"Then maybe you should ask a priest."

"I don't like priests." Jim wrinkled his nose and looked away, almost bored.

"Where will Carl go?" He asked after a longer pause, looking back at the psychiatrist.

"It depends, Jim."

"He swims a lot." The boy said after a long pause, almost seeming to change the subject.

"Swimming accidents don't happen often."

"They do happen sometimes though... I will go to hell, but will he?"

"Would you like him to?"

Jim bit his lip and shook his head. "I don't need him to, I don't want to meet him there. I just want him to stop laughing."

"Sometimes that's not enough."

 

He was eleven and looking for trouble, smirking and speaking with his accent as pronounced as possible. He asked for it, according to Carl. It didn't feel worth it at first and he still had nightmares, but he got himself to work, cheered on by his psychiatrist. Try until you succeed or something along the lines. He was always good at chemistry and Carl would leave his medication is his locker every time he was going swimming. Asking for it, wasn't he?

 

When Carl made it to the front page, Jim nicked some change from his father's coat and bough himself a copy of the newspaper, unable to stop smiling at it when nobody could see. He was a little worried what the doctor would say, but he only smiled at him softly and talked to him like nothing happened. Some time later he praised the method Jim picked as the police labelled it an accident. He started sleeping better and speaking louder. Carl wasn't laughing anymore.


End file.
